


Darkest of Crowns

by orphan_account



Series: Howl at Hallowed Ground [6]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Darling Pan - Freeform, F/M, OUAT - Freeform, SMUUUUUT
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-04
Updated: 2014-01-04
Packaged: 2018-01-07 10:04:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1118585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter wants Wendy back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Darkest of Crowns

_ Darkest of Crowns _

 

The Pan sits on his Wendy-bird's bed, shoulders hunched and sharp elbows pressed in his thighs. He tangles his fingers in his clump of hair, pulls it, remembering how she used to do the same, in tandem with the pleasure-induced shudders wracking her body. His head is bowed, the crown of thorns slipping.

He’d come back from the treasure hunt only hours before, irritated from a fruitless search. There’d been no gold – it was a false trail – and now he knows why.

It had been a stupid mistake on his part, to not question why such a precious map hadn’t been coveted and guarded by Killian. It was a distraction. A way to get Pan and his boys out of the camp, safe for the pirates to pass through. And now, Pan has lost his most valuable prize.

His Wendy. Gone, with the pirates. He spoke with the mermaids, goaded them with jewels (a trick he learned from _her,_ an age ago) and they said that the girl had been stolen by Hook. They said that he'd come to the island and left with his bird.  
  
They said he'd seen her bathing, and his motives had changed from greed for magic beans to lust for Wendy's body.  
  
How long has it been since the pirates saw her last? Two years, three? They have changed (his mouth twists at the words _grow up,_ spits them out as unborn phrases), all of them, and Wendy's transition from little mouse to something closer to woman will not go unnoticed.  
  
The Pan feels a growl rip through him at the thought of Hook's rebellion. Wendy is _his,_ and the realisation that the fire in her veins might burn another, that the bites on her thighs will be from the mouth of that drunken _fool_ makes his spine lock and a snarl hiss through his jagged teeth.   
  
He should have torn out her heart and buried it long ago. He should have stolen the feathers on her breath as soon as her pretty white feet touched Neverland's soil, ripped her wings away. He should have relished the way muscle tore from flesh, the delicious sound it made (like a beast sucking gristle in between bones) as tendons snapped – piece by bloody piece. He should have _broken_ her. But he'd been an idiot; enchanted by her wide eyes and pink mouth, her porcelain skin and all that _fire –_ the flames that scorched her bones, the ones that not even the oppressive London society could douse, ones that grew to a towering inferno amongst his kindling fingers.  
  
Had anyone else run from him as many times as she had, had anyone else defied him, they would most certainly have died a grisly death. Felix was a testament to that. Slit throat, heart crushed, spine torn from their back – did it matter? Ice snaps his rage, but not her neck.  
  
(never, _never_ )  
  
The Pan's cruelty knows no bounds. This is not unfamiliar. He is a terrible, cold thing, spawned from the blackest belly of the forest. He thrives on evil, laps it up as if it's sweetest elixir, ties it to his soul. It sustains him, makes him _prosper_. His sinister nature is what makes the games so _fun_. The darkness in his Lost Boys' hearts gives him strength, and he feasts on their nightmares. Yet, still the girl lives. The bird that haunts him so remains free of his bloody thorns.  
  
He feels her still, feels her teeth on his bones like ghosts – and he wants her so much, wants her like _burning._ She's crawled inside his skin and made her home amongst his thoughts, made sure the image of her – moaning, naked, _wet,_ all for him – is singed behind his eyes. He can’t imagine not having her, by his side, in his bed.  
  
His knife-grins can cut through purity like frost blooming across windows, yet he cannot escape a simple _girl._  
  
(he should have learned by now that girls are worse than boy kings and stronger by far)  
  
Wendy is all he can think of. He wants her _here,_ in the cage of his arms. As fascinating her fire is, it needs to be contained – the Pan wants her glorious flame trapped in a pretty glass jar, for his own amusement. To play with when _he_ wants. These chasing games are fun, but he knows all too well that Wendy has too much ground to stand on.  
  
He's been weak, of late. Giving her such a free reign – should've pulled her to find the treasure by the fucking _hair_ – that she has the gall to _deny him_ and he just... let her. Even kissed her goodbye, drawing her closer with his arms round her waist, promising he’d be back soon. Like some sentimental idiot, cooing at his lady wife.  
  
(love in your heart, boy, blood on your hands)  
  
He's too soft. He let her girlish _tricks_ confuse him – her breasts, her soft skin, her hot mouth – and as a result he let her out of his sight.  
  
Birds are meant to have their wings clipped. He intends to rip them to shreds.  
  
Wendy is far too wild, now.   
  
(it bleeds black into neverland but he doesn't want her broken)  
  
He scoffs through gritted teeth. It's ironic, really. Wendy always wanted to be a pirate. The Pan knows, even if she doesn't say. He knows her better than anyone – inside out, to the core, from her lips to her feet.   
  
She wants to be feared, wants to be ruler, so much so that he briefly entertains the thought that she'll kill Hook and sail back to him as Red-Handed Jill, a gleaming sword in hand and a kiss ready for him –  
  
The Pan growls, shakes his head. Given the chance, Wendy would never come back. She would travel from world to world, until every single one chimed with songs of her ferocity, of the bright flash of her teeth like steel. She would set sail with the wind at her back, someone else’s sword, and a crew bound to her in blood. She would leave him without a thought.  
  
He'd do the same – why does he feel bitter? It's Neverland that made her, that sheared away the soft skin to give way for the steel. The fire was always there, but it was the sharp of his cruelties that taught Wendy how to make things _bleed_ with the force of her ambition.  
  
He should be glad. Proud, even, of what he’s made. And now she's almost there, upon the waves. The pirate has her. He's a _man,_ and although he could never be Husband, never be _Bae,_ he's closer than Pan ever was. He's handsome enough to tempt Wendy's desire - he's seen the way a blush crept to her neck at one of Hook's roguish winks, and she's made it plain she doesn't want to belong to Pan. The pirate will have her taste on his drunken tongue by now.  
  
Pan wonders if Wendy likes the flavour of wine.  
  
He chokes on that thought, kicks out and the toe of his boot connects with her little table. The wood splinters at the force, books sliding to the floor. His rage flares; he roars, the noise of it pulsing through Neverland. He feels the waters ripple, the trees sway.

 _Good,_ he thinks. He wants Killian to know he’s coming.

He flexes his fingers, _wishes,_ and the books burst into flame. The ink runs, the fire flashing green for but a moment.  
  
The Pan stares at them, bores his eyes into the crackling light, but nothing can will away the images that flood to mind - Hook and Wendy, together. Touching. Kissing. Fucking. That disgusting _man_ and his ugly breath, tainting his Wendy's skin.  
  
There's something awful in his chest, howling for his bird to fly back to him. It screams in his throat, makes his fingers turn to claws and tighten in her bed sheets.  
  
He rips them apart, hisses and curses cracking in his throat (growing, growing you cruel boy). He throws every single one of the pretty glass pieces she keeps on her drawers and shatters them against the wall, squeezes them until his hands bleed.  
  
(nothing takes what is _mine_ )

Pan walks to where his Lost Boys are waiting, their hands shaking and eyes uneasy.

“Boys,” he declares, “we’re going on another treasure hunt. Bring your bloodthirst.”

When the feral grin curls at the corner of his mouth, flashing needle teeth, his putrid heart beats quicker at the thought of taking his revenge.

 

***

The moment Peter arrives back to the Lost Boys’ camp to find her gone, Wendy feels it.

She’s sitting down for her third dinner with Captain Hook – meaning, it is her third night on the ship – when a shockwave pulses through the waters to the belly of the _Jolly Roger._ It rattles the cutlery, shakes the crystal glasses in their cases, tilts the paintings. Her goblet of rich, cherry wine (she’s not fond of the taste, but Hook seems to love alcohol best when it’s taken from her lips) tips over into her lap.

The liquid blooms across the pure white of her dress, and of course it looks just like blood. An omen, perhaps.

The wind picks up a second after, carrying his screeching rage with each gust. It buffets the ship, tips it from side to side, sending grapes tumbling along the length of Hook’s grand table. The seas whip against the side of the _Jolly Roger_ , great big splashes reaching over and sopping onto the deck. The dark wood is awash with foam, with salt. The whole of Neverland _shifts._

Wendy rolls her eyes. “Peter’s always had a penchant for the dramatics.” She says, dryly, but traitorous fear hums through her, sharp and cold.

Hook’s gaze shifts from the roof of his cabin, which is currently dripping seawater, to where her hands are folded in her lap, stained with wine. “His _dramatics_ usually end up with people dead.”

She shrugs, nonchalant, even though the thought of sweet, naïve Tootles with Peter’s hands round his throat keeps resurfacing in her mind’s eye. “Sometimes we have to make certain sacrifices to get what we want.”

The Captain lounges back in his chair, tapping his hook against the smooth surface of the table. He wets his lips before speaking. “And what _do_ you want, lass?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

At this, Hook lets out a husky chuckle, one he _knows_ makes her want to straddle his hips and kiss him till he reaches under her dress. She shifts. “You’d think so,” he tells her, “but you’re a more _complex_ little thing than I thought.”

Wendy raises an eyebrow. “I’m _not_ little.”

He tilts his head at her, a smirk playing on his lips. “P’rhaps not.”

In many ways, Captain Hook is reminiscent of Peter. He’s smug, for one. Confident. Charming. Handsome, disarmingly so, and very secure in his knowledge of this. Perhaps this is what has made fucking him easier for Wendy – she can find small comforts in the way he hooks his elbow under her leg, the way he groans from the very _pit_ of him, all things that remind her of Neverland’s king.

( _her_ king)

Yet, she can’t help but wish he wasn’t as _soft._ When she pinpointed this exact thought, drew the words to the forefront of her mind, she had scoffed. Wendy Moira Angela Darling, wishing that the pirate she was using as a tool of revenge was _crueller?_ It seems a horrid joke, at times, what her life has become. She’s both a scrap of a girl and so much _better_ ; more and less, stronger and weaker, all crammed into one messy tangle of steel and sunrise and teeth and blood.

She hides this from Hook. Hides many things; conceals the sharpest points of her beneath the smooth of her brow. She’s naked more often than not in front of him, yet she’s never been more guarded. She doesn’t scrape her teeth against his skin, doesn’t growl, _never_ makes him bleed. The roughest she gets is scratching her nails down his back, and even that makes him pause. She tells herself it’s to keep up appearances, to play the child, but the words _I’ll slit your fucking throat_ rise to her lips and she knows it’s fruitless. She knows that, deep down, the worst parts of her are for Peter, and Peter alone.

She can tell Hook sees it in her, the ferocity. The wolf. She gets the feeling he’s long used to seeing steel in the women who have been long overlooked – perhaps he’s been stung too many times by girls he had thought weak. When she tells him of her plans, when her eyes alight at the thought of revenge, of freedom, she knows he’s looking at the steel in her heart.

“I haven’t been able to decide,” Hook muses, pressing his fingertips to the rim of his goblet as another tremor rattles the ship, “whether you seek freedom or queendom.”

“You think I want to rule Neverland?” she asks, and it takes strength to keep her laugh bright.

He scoops the goblet up, takes a gulp. “Yes, lass, I do.” He says, his words spoken throatily in the aftermath of drink.

“I’m not cut out to be a Queen.” She lies.

Truth be told, it’s a tempting vision; run with Tootles and Tink and even Rufio, forever, free to let Hook visit her when she pleases. She thinks of how the flowers bloomed for her despite how her heart has blackened, as if they remembered the sunrise and the way she used to care. She thinks of blood on dirt and cream, of how the thorns opened their grotesque mouth to devour her and how she never flinched.

Perhaps she should have plucked a few from the thicket and made herself a crown.

Hook cradles the goblet to his chest, and shrugs. “Maybe not. But you _want_ it.”

Irritation, hot and insistent, flares up in her throat. Wendy doesn’t let it show. Doesn’t let him realise his words have insulted her. Instead, she stands, and lets her dress fall to the ground, effectively shutting him up.

She’s not bothered with underwear since the first time with the Captain, yet his reaction is always the same. He sets his precious wine down with an audible _thunk,_ tongue sliding out to wet his already-moistened lips.

“Where?” he asks, huskily, and she smiles.

Hook is a wild, wild man. He sails around Neverland with the wind in his coat-tails, hardly ever settling, usually drinking, always the alpha. He commands authority with every step, easy as breathing. Yet, he always acts with obedience when her body is concerned. This both pleases and frustrates her; his deference is well-deserved, but Wendy always, _always_ finds herself longing for something more demanding.

She does not seek submission – she wants a game.

She gestures to his chair, for him to stand. He does so without question, and she sinks into the plush upholstery with a sigh. “Teach me something new,” she tells him.

He pushes the chair away from the table, so he can kneel in front of her. She’s sitting with her ankles crossed, her hands folded neatly in her lap. It’s a far cry from what she’s used to; hands and knees, back in the grass, and it doesn’t sit as comfortable as she’d have liked, but today Wendy is in the mood to be worshipped. To forget.

Hook’s dark eyes glimmer in a way that’s _so_ different to Peter – there’s a respect shining in his black irises that isn’t born from teeth and cruel, sharp words. He gazes up at her, a rough palm smoothing over her knee. He pushes her legs apart, gently, lifting them so they drape over the arm rests of his chair. She tips her head back, looking to the ceiling. Brushes her fingertips across the top of her creamy thighs, through the downy mass of curls at her core, up and over her stomach to pinch at peachy nipples.

Wendy mewls, rolling her head to look back down at him.

The handsome pirate stares at her, hungrily. It’s nothing compared to the all-consuming, ice-cold desire that alights in Peter’s eyes, but it still makes heat spark to her cunt. She spreads her legs wider. Hook leans forward, pressing a kiss to the top of her mound.

She sighs, wriggling, but the light touch of his hand on her thigh makes her settle. _Harder,_ she thinks, but of course he doesn’t hear. She wants him to bruise her, to mark her, but he won’t. The worst he does is suck purple bruises onto her neck.

(more than enough to make him pay)

He drops a chaste peck to the crease of her inner thigh, smirking when she breathes out a shaky gasp.

Wendy almost rolls her eyes. He thinks her the innocent, of course. Not quite a virgin; he’d felt that there was no barrier, hadn’t asked. But he most likely presumes that her experience of sex was a quick, rough coupling with Peter that had no art to it, no pleasure.

(wrong wrong _wrong_ )

Hook’s pithy attempts at manipulation, at teasing, are mere child’s play compared to the elaborate games she conducts with Neverland’s king. His superiority is patronising in the extreme, and at times she can barely restrain herself from curling her fingers round his throat. Shaking him. Telling him that his life is brittle as bird’s bone, and that snapping it into blistered halves requires but an ounce of her concentration.

However, Wendy finds she rather likes Hook. And, she needs him, however loath to admit _that_ she is.

“Please,” she breathes, “oh, _please_ –”

It is nothing to make her voice weak and fragile, but the strain it puts on her pride is something else altogether. She looks down at his expression, the roguish grin that holds such male charisma and dominance, none of the boyish cruelties that Peter has, and whines. It’s easier to let him think he’s the puppeteer if she knows she’s getting pleasure from it.

Hook gives her cunt a long, wet lick. She bucks her hips, tangling her fingers in his hair, but the dark mop of it is too thin, too short. He licks her again, lapping at her clit. The rough scrape of his stubble rasps against her, sending spirals of delicious heat straight to her core.

When he speaks, his voice is rumbling and throaty with desire. “You’ve such a pretty cunt, lass.” He murmurs, pressing his lips to her centre in emphasis.

The words are enough to make her gasp genuine. “What?” she asks, chest heaving.

He ignores her, instead tracing the tip of his tongue over her clit in small, tight circles. She shudders, moaning, lifting her buttocks off the seat of the chair and pressing into his mouth. The chuckle he lets loose at this shoots vibrations up her spine.

“Did you let Pan do this?” he asks, abruptly.

Wendy pauses. It’s a game; one the pirate has taken his time to establish. He wants to measure her alliance to Peter, to see if she can follow through with the betrayal.

Fury, sharper than pleasure, swells in her breast. Does he think her a coward? She looks down to his raised eyebrow, to where he’s paused in his ministrations. He stares back at her with the thirst of the game in his eyes.

A challenge, one he thinks she cannot compete in, has become evident.

Pride, fierce and straight-backed, joins the mix. It sends steel coursing to her fingertips; she tightens her hold on his hair. “Yes.” She replies, through gritted teeth.

(the wolf prowls behind them let her out _let her out_ )

He grazes his tongue over her clit, tracing some pattern there. It’s delicate, pinpointed, _focused_ and the pleasure that washes over her is an ice-cold burn, nothing like the way Peter licks broad stripes between her thighs, kissing as if to devour the taste of her. The pirate is more skilled, certainly, but even through the haze of desire, she still wishes for her old games. This sort of torture builds up in her abdomen, slowly – Peter’s methods felt as if the night sky was unfolding in her blood.

“You like it when he tastes you,” Hook purrs, his voice low and velvet, “you like it when he puts his tongue in you.”

Wendy moans, nodding, barely able to form words. Her hips are grinding, slowly, against his mouth. Wetness rolls down her buttocks, down her thighs, smeared by the Captain’s chin and cheeks.

“Tell me, lass,” he whispers, “what does he do?”

She cries out, throwing her head back, and the wolf’s howl builds in her throat. It bubbles there, waiting to boil over. A simmering wilderness that, on Neverland, could not have been kept in check.

This is new. This is _different._ The only words Peter ever says to her during one of their trysts against the soil are orders, simple commands accompanied by the sting of his fingernails, or her name groaned against her skin – there’s none of this… _talk_.

The raw heat of it makes pleasure, pure and heady, lash through her core. White-hot and blinding, it sends electric currents zinging up and down her spine, and she whimpers as her hips buck forward. Hook gives her cunt a scorching kiss, urging her to speak.

“H-he makes me beg for it,” Wendy whispers, moaning and arching her back.

The Captain rewards her by slipping his hand from her thigh, to her cunt, and pushing his long index finger into her soft heat. She grinds down on it, crying out loud enough to be heard even over the din that is Hook’s crew singing, drunkenly, over their dinner. He suckles, once, on her clit, and she can feel the pressure building in her abdomen, but he stops – speaks.

“Why?” he asks, words slurring as if he’s drunk on her body rather than liquor, intoxicated by the pleasure that rolls off her in waves. “Tell me, why?”

“He knows – he knows I hate it.” Wendy shivers as she feels the pirate’s smile curling against her most intimate flesh, his finger pumping slowly in and out.

(not enough not _nearly_ enough)

Her buttocks are still lifted off the chair; her muscles tensed, sweat beads at the back of her thighs and rolls to her knees in salty rivulets.

“You begged for me,” he reminds her, eyebrow raised in question.

She wants to snarl in his face, hiss insults that spit poison in the air, tell him _it won’t matter in the end you stupid man because Peter will die and the wolf will go free and the queen shall be crowned when I beg it is for your_ death – she wants to tell him that _he_ should be the one begging her, for _mercy._ Her pride spurs on the beast that growls, low in her throat, but reason muffles its threats.

He’s played himself into a corner, thinking he’s got her where she needs to be; but this is her chance to solidify the fragile alliance she’s managed to forge between them. This is her chance to convince him that she wants Pan dead.

(convince herself, too)

So, Wendy dampens her pride. She lets loose an earth-shattering moan, gasping and _long,_ and the singing outside the cabin grows louder in an attempt to drown them out. “Because I want you,” she tells him, “I want you –”.

The triumph that flickers in his gaze as he leans up to kiss her is proof enough that she has fooled him.

In truth, she wants only Peter.

Hook rids himself of trousers and shirt quickly enough, and Wendy smooths her hands over his hard, rippling muscles as she wraps her legs around his waist. His cock is hot against her cunt, and she tilts her hips back to grind down on it in a desperate plea for friction. He groans into her open mouth, pressing her back against the chair.

The pleasure that builds, low in her gut, begins to roil and spit, and she takes him in her hand, pumps him slowly.

The Captain doesn’t buck into her fist like Peter does; he’s all slow, steady thrusts, long and deep, until she guides him into her heat. He stops, gouges his hook into the soft, plush material of the chair next to where her head is leaned back against it, pulsing inside her. He kisses her again, his lips slick and warm.

“What do you want?” he asks her, pulling back to whisper the words against her jaw.

She whines, trying to move her hips, but he holds her firmly in place. She falls silent for a moment, breathing heavily, her chest heaving against Hook’s.

He’s immobile, waiting for her reply.

 _Bastard,_ she thinks.

“I want you to –” she swallows, knowing he’ll be expecting more than a _fuck me_ this time, “I want you to make me come – I want your hands on my breasts –”

Hook begins to move, agonisingly slow, with smooth thrusts. He presses his hand into her hip, just short of bruisingly, swiping his thumb over the jut of her pelvis. He licks her neck, lapping the salt that has collected there.

Wendy presses her thighs to his sides in an urge for him to quicken his pace, but he only chuckles, and continues rolling his hips at a torturously lax rhythm. “What else, love?” he asks.

“Faster – oh – _faster,_ ” she gasps, but he doesn’t oblige.

He simply laughs again, his mouth at her neck. “I _like_ you, lass,” he whispers, “I like your pretty mouth and your cunt – so _pink_ and wet – but you’ll have to do better than that.”

She sucks in a breath through her teeth, whining. She feels him begin to slow, and before his movements stop completely she puts her lips to his ear and groans, “too gentle – you’re too gentle – I want you to _fuck_ me, Hook, and I want you to bend me over the table and take me from behind,”

The pirate hisses, increasing his pace. Their hips circle in slow, easy movements, but the heat is palpable. He presses a bruising kiss at the place her neck meets her jaw, but it’s _still_ too soft.

“I want you to mark me,” Wendy continues, tilting her pelvis to take him deeper, “bite me, bruise me, make me _yours,_ Captain –”

It seems that the uttering of his title is what breaks his control. With a strangled shout, Hook pulls away from her, and for a moment she thinks she’s lost but then he pulls her towards him, pushes her to the table.

She stumbles, but recovers with ease and settles with her hands planted on the table’s surface and her legs spread.

He thrusts into her in one movement of his hips, fills her, and she can’t help the frenzied moan that spills from her parted lips.

“Fuck,” the pirate murmurs, and then he’s slamming into her recklessly, his fingers digging into her waist with a bite that makes her skin feel as if it’s bursting open, blistering with pleasure.

Wendy arches her back, keening, and when he hits _that spot_ within her, she comes. She cries out, white-hot spasms wracking her body, and a little of the wolf spills from her – she _growls,_ cursing, reaching down to rub her clit. Her muscles clench around his cock, and he follows, his thrusts becoming erratic, a hoarse groan pulling itself from the bottom of his throat.

They barely have time to disentangle themselves (the afterglow is never long, with Hook – he prefers to leave almost immediately) before there’s a pounding on the door.

“I’m _busy!_ ” the Captain barks, going to his cupboard and tossing Wendy a spare shirt, since her dress lies sullied by wine on the floor.

The clothing is so big that it falls just above her knees anyway, and her belt serves to cinch it around the waist. She rolls up the sleeves, eyeing the door.

“Cap’n –” comes a frantic voice, holding a note of panic that makes them both freeze, “Cap’n – it’s _him,_ come for the girl.”

 


End file.
